


Markiplier Ego Angst

by AlexTheSpaceRaven



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Also attempted suicide, And successful suicide, Angst, Hi yes I'm an asshole, I, Other, there is death in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexTheSpaceRaven/pseuds/AlexTheSpaceRaven
Summary: These are all months old, but these are all my Markiplier ago angst. Some are really short, others are a little longer. Forgive me for that.Got a broken heart? Feel free to yell at me in the comments, or on tumblr (alexthechaotic.tumblr.com) I'd love to hear what you think! :D





	1. You're Not Him (Wilford and Dark)

Wilford is normally happy go lucky. He’s always positive. Which is why it’s so jarring to hear broken sobs, and cries to fill the area the egos inhabit. It’ll be silent for a while, until someone is woken up by quiet whimpering. These small helpless cries slowly grow, until he’s shouting. Wil would plead with some unknown force, begging for Celine and Damien to come back. Dark was always the one to help him. And every time, it broke him. Watching his cheerful friend open his eyes, bleary with tears. “Damien….?” He would quietly whisper this, reaching out for the monochromatic ego. A few seconds would go by, before his face falls. “Y-you’re not Damien…” Wil would turn away, tears falling down his face. Dark would reach out to comfort him again, only for the bright ego to recoil, withdrawing into himself. The other egos would watch on in sad confusion. Dark would stand, apologising that he can’t do more to help. He would walk away, a few solemn tears adorning his face. No matter what he tried, he could never help Wilford. The cheerful ego would always be broken, and he couldn’t do anything about it.


	2. The Lost Jim

Imagine one of the Jims dying on a mission. Newscaster Jim walks back solemnly, holding a broken camera. He walks into the Jim room, and just collapses in a heap. The other Jims, in their hopeless optimism, jokingly berated him for playing around. They ask him how the cameraman Jim dropped his camera, since he was usually attached to it. They make desperate grasps. ‘Is he playing hide and seek?’ ‘Did he find another Jim, so he can go buy a new camera?’ ‘…He is coming back, isn’t he?’ A beat, before newscaster Jim breaks down into broken sniffles and sobs. One by one, all optimism is lost, and there’s a pile of Jims, all crying for their lost brother. Wilford walks in, a new story on the tip of his tongue, before noticing. He figures it best to leave them alone. This happens so often, but it never gets easier for them.


	3. Dying

‘I’m sorry, you’re dying.’ 

It’s rare to go an hour without Dr.Iplier declaring your impending death. It’s not often you hear that, and know it’s true. It happens, sometimes, that fans just lose interest in a character. When that happens, an ego can just fade into dust. Bing watched as Dr.Iplier attempted to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, only to go right through. His little buddy wailed in anguish, watching this happen. He would poof out of existence as soon as Bing faded away, but it was much sadder to watch these effects slowly occur. The Jims were teary eyed, almost as upset as when they lose their family, because they had made Bing an honourary Jim. Dark ran a hand through his hair, asking the doctor if there’s anything he can do. A gentle shake of the head was all they needed. Bing just sat there, numb. He couldn’t feel the floor, and looked through his hands. Slowly, ever so slowly, his head drops. He sheds a solemn tear which hits the ground, just as he finally fades away. The mansion is silent.


	4. Squirrels Are Pets Too

Losing a pet is agony. It’s even worse when you watch them take their last raspy breath, before finally giving up and going still. King was no stranger to death. Squirrels very rarely make it past their first year. Sometimes, they last longer. Of course, every king has a favourite. His happens to be a 7 year old squirrel who he rescued as a baby from a storm. This little guy hung around, and was always there. Which is why it hurt so much when King walked out to see him on the floor, gasping for breath. He took the poor thing inside, comforting him. He needed to help. For two hours, the suffering went on. It took two hours for his heart to finally stop. King finally took this time to cry, cradling the still, cooling body. He couldn’t help. He failed, and now he’d lost his best friend. The other egos watched on, not really bothering with him. Somehow, that made it hurt more. No one even cared enough to see if he was okay. He know he wasn’t as well loved, but sometimes he needed support. His crying went on long into the night, before he finally succumbed to sleep, still hugging the cold corpse brokenly. He didn’t have it in himself to remove the body, knowing that when he lets go, it’ll all become that much more real.


	5. Forgotten

It hurt to be forgotten. To have to watch from the shadows as your old friend laughed and joked with Mark. With the bastard who stole your body. They forgot you, didn’t they? There’s no way they’d treat him like this, knowing what he’d done. Would they? No. Dark shook his head. He had to figure this out. He watched as his friend pointed at the door for the horror movie. ‘The Dark Mark.’ How ironic. He snuck in, and hid behind the curtain. Show time. As he prepared to show, he noticed Mark had fled. What a coward. Though of course he would run. After all, he knew Dark wouldn’t spare him. He let his aura run wild. He watched as his friend stood, eyes wide and shaking with trepidation. He moved closer to them, moving directly in front of them.   
‘Did you miss me? I missed you, very much.’ He couldn’t hide the smile that grew from seeing his old friend. His smile drops as he thinks this. They betrayed him. A dark thought flies through him, as he remembers his original purpose. “I’ve been pushed aside. Replaced….” He makes eye contact. “Mocked.” He continued to speak, ranting at them. “It’s my turn now!” He’s yelling at this point. “I’ve been waiting patiently! He promised he would let me in again! I’m tired of giving people a choice.” He pauses, before giving his old friend four chances. Opportunities to remember him. But as always, only one choice led to the right path. His calm façade breaks from time to time, and he knows he should stay calm. But he can’t. Because his friend forgot about him, replaced him. Was he not good enough, “I can give you anything!” He can, why would they pick Mark over him. He’s talking to them, when he gets tackled. He growls, fighting back against Mark.  
They pull apart, only for Dark to see his friend with a gun pointed at him. He tries desperately to convince them to shoot him. The gun goes off, and he feels pain, and falls to the ground. He watches, as Mark takes them away, congratulating them, telling them they did the right thing. He just lies there, trying to regenerate his body. He doesn’t have the motivation. They forgot him, and they wouldn’t remember him. His old friend betrayed him unknowingly. He phases away, needing to leave. Why didn’t they remember him…?


	6. Laugh To Hide The Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains self harm.

You know, they always say the one who laughs the loudest is the one in the most pain. I think that can easily be applied to Wilford. He was always the kind of person to lift the mood up with his childlike innocence and wonder. So what does that say about what's below the bright clothes and cheery smiles? Secretly, he's breaking. A colourful facade hiding an ugly labyrinth of fractures. A few strings and a bowtie are all that hold him together in a mockery of a gift. He wasn't a gift. He was a curse. He killed them. Mark. The detective. His friend. He reaches back and punches the mirror, cracking it. He could've sworn he saw something, or someone, through the cracks. He starts laughing. Not his usual laughter, but a haunted, manic laughter. His hysteria rises, and he turns away, looking at the blood leaking from his hand. Celine and Damien were dead because of him. Because he didn't protect them. He spins around, staring at the mirror. A sad gaze flashed back at him, and he looks behind him frantically. He looks back, and his friend is gone. Is this it? Has he gone crazy. He screws his eyes tight, dropping to the ground and laughing. Accompanying the laughter was big fat tears. Each one rolled down his face, until he was sobbing. He wouldn't be discovered until the morning, where he will be found surrounded by glass shards and blood. Smiles always were the best way to hide a person's pain.


	7. Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by the song Bullet by Hollywood Undead.   
> As such, it contains suicide.

Legs dangled off the building. It was early, so no one was walking around. The other egos were already asleep, and he was alone. Wilford stared down at the ground. It was really far down. He bit his lip. He couldn’t go back now. Another swig of alcohol, and the bottle is empty. He smashes the bottle, picking up the shards. They cut his hands, but he can’t bring himself to care. The pain is nice. He laughs brokenly, standing. He had to do this now. Dark was probably waking up now, he always was an early riser. He’d find the note, and come to find him. A door slammed open downstairs. He had to go. He stared down, taking a step closer to the edge. Maybe, just maybe, he’d learn to fly. He had always wanted to be able to fly. To soar freely. I mean, this is technically vertical flying. Another step. It’s a lot higher than he thought. He stares down at the jagged rocks below. Just one more step. He flinched as he heard a door slam behind him. He turns, looking at Dark. The normally stoic ego had tears filling his eyes. “Please, Wil. Don’t do this.” He shuffles backwards a bit further. In response, Dark steps forwards. The monochrome ego widens his eyes a fraction. Just as Wilford stepped backwards, he rushed forwards. Time slowed, as a memory flashes in Wil’s memory. As he falls, he watches Dark reach out to catch him, missing narrowly. Once, this was reversed. The district attorney falling, as he reached out in desperation. He doesn’t want this. He can’t do this. He reaches out, trying to catch Dark’s hand, wanting to be rescued. But he swipes at thin air, very barely touching Dark’s fingertips, before he plummets down. A broken scream tears from his throat, and he watches as Dark falls to his knees, staring at him in horror. And then, impact, and blackness. Before his consciousness fades, he hears a scream of emotional agony.


	8. I'm Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another suicide one. Be careful while reading.

“I’m sorry, I’m dying.” Doc laughs hollowly, staring up at the ceiling. Unshed tears shimmer in his eyes. Normally, he was saying that to the others. They’d probably be relieved he wouldn’t be there. He looks at the pill bottles lining the walls, and pushes himself up shakily. Well, he’d better get this over with. He pulls a random bottle off the shelf, reading it. He does the same with a few other bottles, building up a small pile. He was in high stock of them, so the others wouldn’t miss them. Next up, he walked to his desk, pulling out both bottles of alcohol hidden there. He was saving them, but this is probably the best use he’ll get out of them. He works on methodically emptying the medicine bottles, forming small piles of pills. He eyed his phone, opening it. In tv shows, this is where the protagonist would find missed calls and messages from friends and loved ones. Another hollow laugh. No one really cared enough to talk to him, unless they were sick or injured. He shuts the screen off, staring at the device. His anger slowly bubbles beneath the surface. Why didn’t they care?! He helped them all the time, and this was the thanks he got? He growled, and threw the phone, watching as it shattered into pieces upon hitting the wall. Why did he expect anything else from them? He sat down, opening both bottles of whiskey. He loves this brand, and it was a perfect final drink. Of course, he had forgone eating any food today. It would make the drugs go down better.  
The broken ego frowned, the tears finally spilling over. Who would find him? Would they even think to check on him at all until they needed him? He scooped up a pile of pills, putting them in his mouth, and washing them down with a heavy swig of alcohol. He took a second, savouring the burn of whiskey, before picking up another pile of pills. He repeated this, again and again, until he realised he had ran out. His head was fuzzy, and he felt sick. But he knew he had to keep it down, and persevere. So he stood up, and staggered over to the shelves. He wanted—no, he needed more. He had to have more. He pulled another bottle off the shelf. His vision was too blurry to read it, so he just hoped for the best. He emptied some of the pills into his mouth, gulping down alcohol. He desperately continues, emptying the bottle.   
He reached for another bottle, before hearing a knock on the door. He froze, before relaxing. A giggle bubbles up from his throat. He was starting to feel tired, and everything felt funny. The door handle rattled, before another knock on the door. A voice was speaking. But who was it? Will, Dark, King? Who even cared? He was so close, he could feel it. So he downed the last of the alcohol in his hand. The knocks were getting more insistent, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just went on to drink the other bottle, ignoring the burn. It must’ve gotten to be too much, because he found himself on the floor. He stared up at the ceiling once again. Well, more he was staring into space. His mind was too fuzzy to really focus. He smiled, for once the joy in it being genuine. It was all over. His eyes slid shut, as his heart rate finally slowed down, fading to a stop. He was too far gone to notice two figures rushing into the room, nor as they crouched down at his side. All he noticed was the peaceful embrace of death, as he finally slipped away from the torment of life.


	9. The Only Failure

He sighed, nursing another drink. Damien didn’t often drink, disliking the loss of control. Alcohol consumption was often reserved for celebrations with his friends. They always knew how to make him lose his sensibilities, and he loved how they could help him open up. But lately, he found himself turning to the strong smelling liquid. He was drinking spiced rum today. It had been a gift from his friend, in celebration for getting a job as an apprentice under the district attorney. The other had dreamed of this for years. He was proud of them, but jealous. He didn’t have the skills, nor the confidence to get anywhere in life. He frowned. His friends were all successful, and he was sat here hopelessly fetching tea for the mayor of the town he lives in. Luckily, he was at home today. He could afford to lose it. So he drank. He was never going to be as successful as the other. His good friend William had just been promoted to a Colonel in the army. He was rising in the ranks, and might even make it to a higher role soon enough. Damien was printing off useless paperwork in an office. He wasn’t in work today. An intern isn’t needed every day. He was easily replaceable. Another intern was working today. Mark had just got his big break, starring in a popular film franchise. He was another unnamed face, working in an office where no one cares about him. He would never get out of the shadows. He would always be stuck doing menial tasks for little money.  
His sister, Celine had just gotten married to Mark, and was a popular and well known face. He was still single, and bitter. He just couldn’t find anyone he cared for like that. He chuckled emptily. That was a lie. But the one he cared about was too busy practicing law. They wouldn’t care about stupid, useless Damien. They would be better off marrying someone who actually had a chance of being successful. He closes the bottle, standing. He didn’t want to waste the entire gift on one night of drinking. So he replaced the bottle in his cabinet, and pulled out a cheaper liquor. Nothing sophisticated of course, but it would get the job done. So he drank. He drank the entire bottle, until the feelings were no longer bubbling up in his chest. And then he drank some more, until he couldn’t remember why he was drinking in the first place. He fell asleep there, slumped at his desk at home, with no chance of waking up. And he slept. He slept when William and the assistant District Attorney came in, looking over him fondly.


	10. River

Wilford growled in frustration, burying his face in his hands. He was such an idiot, and now he was paying the price. Where did it all go so wrong? What once was an almost sweet love had turned into bitter resentment. All that was left was a sour emptiness. And it was his own fault. Yes, maybe he had taken advantage of Celine, but he hadn’t meant for it to go so badly. It had been nice to feel loved. He was just mad that he hadn’t seen the lies that Celine had fed him.  
He had sinned, and he regretted it all. He needed to repent. A flash of metal caught his eye, and he stood up, picking up the flask. He slowly flipped it open, gulping down some of the golden liquor inside. How is this for Holy Water? He laughed bitterly. At least it may kill some of his guilt. Another swig of alcohol went down, burning his throat. He had told her they were over using a letter. He still loved her, but she had used him to get revenge on Mark. And he had used her in return to kill his loneliness. That wasn’t a good foundation.  
And she had begged, pleaded with him. She couldn’t be alone anymore. She needed William. But he had shrugged her off. Cold. Aloof. He couldn’t be with her anymore. He didn’t want to be with her anymore. The relationship had lost its spark.  
And with this thought, he finished off the alcohol, examining the container. It was beautiful, and had been a gift from Celine. He growls, throwing the empty flask at the wall. He couldn’t do this right now. She had told him she loved him. She had said that she cared. It was all lies.  
He frowned as he noticed the piece of paper that had fluttered to the ground. He staggered over, sitting criss cross on the floor, and picking it up. He smiled bitterly, examining it. It was the mandatory scan done before Celine’s abortion. He had been so thrilled to find out she was pregnant. But then Mark found out, and she threw herself at him. It was then that it soured. Clearly, she didn’t love him enough to admit the child was his. So he had let it silently bubble under the surface. So he had convinced Celine to abort. It wasn’t fair to the child, to be born out of spite and revenge. He would’ve loved to see his unborn child, but he couldn’t.  
And when Mark finally threw Celine to the curb, he had come after William in a drunken rage. His hand went subconsciously up to rub at the jagged scar that was now hidden by his bushy moustache. A reminder of his mistakes. He closed his eyes, tears bubbling up. They slowly fell, one by one, until they were falling like a river. He just curled up in a ball, lamenting his lost love. He just wanted to be with her, but he couldn’t. He fell asleep like this, cuddling the scan, and he dreamt of what could’ve been.


	11. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains attempted suicide

Betrayal

noun

the action of betraying one’s country, a group, or a person; treachery.

Mark knew that feeling a lot. He trusted Celine. He married her, for God’s sake! And now look at him, sat on his bed, silent tears rolling down his face. He trusted William. And Damien. They all betrayed him. He stares down at the wedding rings in the palm of his hand. They were matching, both a simple gold, with an inscription. “Forever, I will love you.” The other one read. “And never will I forget you.” A bitter laugh is forced from his mouth. They’re all fucking liars.

“How long?” Mark’s voice was calm, way too calm.

“Mark, I’m so sorry….” Celine’s voice rang out, clear but obviously distraught.

William didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, and Mark growled. “And this is why you were so desperate for money? So you could woo my wife?” The colonel looks at him, nodding affirmatively. This is enough to send a pang of pain to Mark’s heart. He paces, looking rather like a crazed lion trapped in a steel cage.  
“And you!” His voice is rough, and even without looking, he can feel the newly appointed Mayor jump. “You knew! And you didn’t have the decency to tell me!”  
“Please… Don’t blame me. She’s my sister, and she asked me to keep a secret!” He whipped around, fist colliding with Damien’s face. “Don’t give me that shit! You obviously don’t care.” Damien goes to speak, but is stopped by the stony look on his friends face. He nods, stepping backwards, obviously cowed.  
The actor turns, walking to the window in his study. He takes a deep breath, schooling his features, as if this were a performance. They were all his friends, but he couldn’t trust them. No matter how much he loved them in their separate ways. But he needed to push them away. For his own safety.  
“Get out. Now.” His voice is quiet, trying to conceal an intense anger coursing through him. One by one, his former friends reached out for him, before shaking their heads, and walking away. Damien was last to leave, and as soon as the younger male had walked out, Mark flipped. Scripts were strewn everywhere within minutes. Decorative chairs lay broken in a heap.

 

Where did he go so wrong? Was he not enough. Why did Celine leave him? Why did the Colonel choose to fund his extensive celebrations for Celine? Why did Damien seem incapable to understand how to do the right thing? He growls, standing. He walked out of the room, stalking the halls of the manor. It was empty without Celine by his side. He ended up in front of a door. He paused, hand outstretched to open the door. Could he do this?

He sighed heavily, nodding in resignation. He couldn’t do this without them. So he turned the handle, stepping in. On the desk lay a pistol, and he picked it up. A few beats, and he lifts it, placing it to his head. Count. One, two, three.

The next time Damien would see the actor, he’d be sporting a hat, claiming an experiment in method acting. Within a month, the experiment would be over, and Mark would be fully healed. He would try again. And again. And again. And every time, he would fail, waking up in the room. And he’d find a new way to hide it. The others would be none the wiser, until his plan was in action. This time, he wouldn’t fail.


End file.
